


Semi-Charmed Life

by Kleenexwoman



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Breathplay, Canadian Shack, Choking, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Desperation, Kink Meme, M/M, Rough Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-20
Updated: 2015-09-04
Packaged: 2018-04-16 08:55:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,495
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4619289
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kleenexwoman/pseuds/Kleenexwoman
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt fill: "Napoleon is a sex addict. He doesn't get laid for a day or two, let alone longer, and he becomes twitchy, nervous, agitated, unable to concentrate. Most of the time it's not a problem, but then he finds himself cooped up for weeks in a cabin in the middle of nowhere with no other human being for miles and miles. Except for Illya."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

They've been stuck in the safehouse in Alberta for five days. The mission was successful--the THRUSH uranium refining plant in the oil field was deactivated, the rugged oilmen didn't kill Illya for being Russian or Napoleon for being obnoxious, and nobody died who didn't really deserve to. So it's easy to relax. 

Also, the radio is dead. That makes it even easier for Illya to relax. 

He'd found a beat-up checkers set in the safehouse--well, it's really more of a shack--and whiled away a pleasant afternoon carving designations for chess pieces into their faces. (He left one side blank at the request of Solo, who is a mediocre chess player. "Chess is like war," Solo had complained. "Long, boring, and more complicated than anything should be. Checkers, now--that's like a knife fight in an alley.") There aren't many books around, but there is a Gideon's Bible, and he's been paging through it in hopes that he might fit in with religion-obsessed Americans better. There's also a book called "The Feminine Mystique," which Solo had claimed for himself, explaining that it seemed like the kind of spicy book he liked and he knew that Illya wasn't interested in that sort of thing. (Solo had spent an afternoon leafing through the book thoughtfully, and had even underlined a few passages.) 

That had been the first day. The first night had been the sharing of a dusty bottle of what seemed to be tractor fuel, a meal of canned beans, canned tomatoes, and some kind of unnatural yellow cheese scooped up with saltine crackers (which Solo had called "Oklahoma Tacos" as though he expected Illya to get the joke), and a peaceful slumber wrapped up in a quilt on the floor while a storm raged outside. 

The second day had been more chess, and more reading. The storm raged on. Illya explored the contents of the safehouse--lots of wood and some matches, a century's worth of canned and boxed food, a very well-stocked first aid kit, a few bottles of tractor fuel, and very little else. 

The third day, the storm had lifted. Illya had gone outside and closed his eyes, and for a moment, the smell of the snow and the trees and the wood stove burning had made him feel like he was back in Kiev. Then he and Solo had tried the radio. They had been instructed not to radio for an airlift if it was storming unless someone was about to bleed to death, and although Illya could have certainly used another day, he wasn't going to shirk a mission just because he wanted to drink and play chess. 

The radio was dead. 

Solo swore loudly and stomped back into the shack. Illya stared after him. There hadn't been a moment they had spent together where it didn't seem like Solo hadn't been perfectly composed--insulting and rude sometimes, certainly, and occasionally downright obnoxious. But he had never showed any particular emotion that he didn't seem to want to show. 

Until now. Solo spitting out profanities and running a hand through his hair was certainly not the kind of facade a playboy like the American would put on under any circumstances. Illya knew he could keep his own composure during times like this, when he was relaxed and comfortable, engaged in the pastimes he preferred, without people to demand anything from him. But what about Solo? He played the part of the suave even under circumstances that had Illya rattled, so how was it that three days of calm had him so nervous? 

Illya had been trained from boyhood to be in the KGB. He knew, as did most of his fellows, that spying was a dull business most of the time--even the most action-primed agent might spend weeks living quietly undercover, monitoring the most inane conversations, before a few minutes of action. Solo was a criminal whose handful of jobs for the CIA had been deliberately picked to be as perilous as possible. It was very, very important to know how Solo might act, given a dull assignment that required surveillance and patience rather than the seduction of women. 

He followed Solo into the shack. Solo was pacing around the cabin, smoothing his hair back, brows furrowed. He looked as unkempt as Illya had ever seen him. 

"I'm going to look for batteries," he announced. 

"I looked. Could not find any. If you think you can search better..." Illya shrugged. 

"Then I'm going to find some nails, copper wire, and a jar of pickles," Napoleon growled. 

*

"Oh God, I kind of wrote myself into a corner there, didn't I?" Napoleon read from a red notebook that Illya hadn't noticed. 

Illya blinked and looked up from his chess set. "What? Where did you get that?" 

"It's an old codebook." Napoleon shrugged and tossed it aside. "I don't know what it means. It's probably one of those phrases like 'The trains pass quietly in the night' or 'The smiling god rests in the briny depths'." He sighed. "Anyway, I managed to get to Gaby by talking to my cigarette pack. They're sending out an extraction team, but it'll take three more days to get here." 

"...you talked to your cigarette pack?" 

"Sure. Luckies get the best reception, but Camels have the fewest dropped calls." He turned back to the book.

*

"Three days. I'm going to go insane." He gazed at Illya mournfully. 

"Why?" Illya asked. "You will have to do much more of this if you don't get killed." 

"Why not?" Napoleon began to pace around the room again. "No women. No explosions. No cigarettes, although I can make mine last. No cards. No fighting. No--not even waiting to fight. No radio, Illya, no contact with the outside world--and no women!" 

"No women. No explosions. Wood stove and blankets, a very long book, chess. Time to think, and the woods, and the snow. And that tractor fuel--but no tractor! Is paradise to a Russian." 

"You sound like a character from a Swedish film," groused Napoleon. "Not Sjorman, either--Bergman." He collapsed onto the couch. 

"Anyway, Gaby is coming." 

"To you, she's a woman. To me, she's an agent." 

"To me, she is also agent." 

Napoleon made a rude sound with his lips. 

Illya clenched his fist, anticipating that his heart would begin to pound, his breath to come short. It was not good, to have these attacks of anger, of panic--especially not good to be so out of control in such a small space with a partner he could not escape. But the expected rush of sour adrenaline did not come. He felt angry, but for the first time in years he did not feel that he would not punch someone in the face. He relaxed his fist. "She is both. But I understand--you meant women you could have, of course, and she is not one." 

"I don't think I could think about her that way anymore," Napoleon said. "Or, at least, I didn't. Until now." He stood up, his eyes glassy. "Excuse me, Illya. So perhaps..." He was talking to himself now. "Maybe when we land, she'll be so glad to see us that--" The bathroom door shut behind him. 

*

Illya slept on the floor that night, curled around the wooden stove like he used to do on the rare occasions he traveled to his grandmother's house. His sleep was not as restful as at his grandmother's house, however, as Napoleon thrashed and moaned on the couch. Illya thought that perhaps he was having nightmares. 

He woke up to see Napoleon's face flickering in the light of a candle, anguish on his face. "I'm in peril, Peril," he said. 

"What? Are you sick?" Illya sat upright. 

"I can't sleep. I can't think about anything. I never thought it would hurt, I swear--but it feels like it does. Like I'm going through withdrawal." 

"Your file did not say you were an addict." Illya scowled. "So it cannot be that, unless you are very good at keeping monkey on back under your shirt." 

"I'm not addicted to drugs. Well--not anymore." Napoleon scowled. 

"Cigarettes? But you have some left." 

"No. And not hooch, either." He looked at Illya with pleading eyes. "And to think, I laughed when they put it in my file." 

"Serial womanizer." Illya slapped his forehead. "Is that it? Is weakness, Cowboy, not addiction." 

"You don't have room to talk, Peril," Napoleon countered. "You drank that tractor fuel like it was water, and your hands shake when you don't get it." 

"In Russia, vodka is like coffee to you Americans! Is not addiction. And my hands do not shake because I see pink elephant, they shake because I want to punch you in the face." 

"Ah, yes, the psychotic episodes. I read your dossier, too, remember?" 

"You did not, or you would not make up things." 

"The delirium tremens, or the psychotic episodes? Oh, my father got the shakes, I know you don't have them," Napoleon sneered. "But psychotic episodes?" He rose from the couch, flannel blanket still wrapped around his waist. "No, that's all there in black and white." 

Illya dropped his fist. Now the anger came back, that shaky feeling, the pounding of blood in his ears like the boots of the men who came to take his father away. "I am not psychotic. I am not insane. I am not--" Illya's voice was shaking. "I am angry. I am scared. I cannot control what I feel. When I was younger, I would hide under tables and in corners. I would hide from everything. But was anti-Party to hide, to fear--they say it is paranoia. So I fight back instead. I do not fear my comrades, instead I try to fight infiltrators." 

Napoleon shakes his head. "I don't know," he says, "I don't know anymore. I need--someone. Something. And it isn't just to come." He drops his head between his legs, buries his face in his hands. "There's nobody around to charm." 

Illya wraps a blanket around his head, disgusted at Cowboy's neediness--he calls Napoleon that in his head when he stops seeing the UNCLE agent in the man and sees only the American. "I am not available, so look in the mirror, Cowboy."

When he wakes up, the sky is white and the ground is dull. Fat, fluffy flakes of snow are dropping. 

Napoleon is watching out the window. He turns to Illya. "It's going to storm again. We'll be here 'til spring." 

"Then you had better get your desires under control, Cowboy." Illya is in no mood to forgive Napoleon for last night, no matter how antsy he may be. 

"You'd better watch out," Napoleon replies. "By the time spring rolls around, you might be looking pretty good to me." 

* 

And now it is day five, and the storm is raging once again, and Illya would be more serene than he's ever been if it weren't for Napoleon. The American agent has been snappish and mournful by degrees, lashing out with childish insults and regaling Illya with highly inappropriate stories of his past. 

"Clara and I were high school sweethearts," Napoleon says. "I would sneak her into my room when my mother was away, and she'd take her bra off. I never got much farther than that, but I tell you, Illya, I was going to marry that girl." 

"Then there was Angelique." Napoleon sighs and kisses the air with his fingers. "Ah, Angelique! She could kill men with a glance. Well, that and a poisoned hatpin. How I miss her." 

"She sounds unpleasant." 

Napoleon smirks. "And yet, you're in love with Gaby, who is so very harmless--" 

"Gaby, I trust would not poison me with hatpin." 

Napoleon places his face in his hands and groans. "Illya, I'm going crazy. Just--let me talk, please? Let me imagine there's someone else here who'll--" 

Illya slams his fist on the table. "And you are driving me crazy. How do I get you to shut up?" 

"Be a beautiful woman," Napoleon says, "or even a plain one who likes herself a lot." 

"If I were beautiful woman, I would do it just to shut you up." Illya grits his teeth. 

"You would?" Napoleon is suddenly looking at Illya as though he were ikon of Stalin and Illya adoring schoolboy. "Illya--if you have any mercy--" 

And something warm flares deep in Illya's stomach, something that--for once--is not anger. It is something like he felt for Gaby. But where his desire for Gaby was like a warm samovar, glowing and soothing, this is like a cigarette burn--urgent, sharp, and deeply unsettling.

It's Napoleon looking up at him like this, Illya realizes. It's that naked look on Napoleon's face. It's naked need, the absolute look of lust that Napoleon had been constraining under all those suave looks, the mannered way he looked at women. He knew that there was something bestial under there, something that Napoleon could not control, that was not pure ego. 

It simply causes less trouble to seduce people than to punch them, to satisfy a need. 

Napoleon gets on his knees. "Illya," he says. He licks his lips. "If you help me with this--just this once--I'll do whatever you'd like. You can close your eyes and pretend I'm Gaby." 

Illya turns his head. He's never had the upper hand like this--not because of his size but because of who feels what. All his life, he's been subject to these things. His loneliness, then his fear, then his anger, and then his feelings for Gaby. It's strange to be in control, somehow, because of a feeling that has meant so little to him. 

He likes it very, very much. 

Napoleon's lips are hanging open just a little, wet and shining. "Illya," he whispers, "please. I just want you to touch me. I need it so bad." He closes his eyes and presses his hands to Illya's thighs. "You can even hurt me if you like, Peril--knock me around a little if it makes you feel better. Just please, God, make me feel good." 

Illya runs his fingers through Napoleon's thick hair--it's unnaturally smooth, even though the Brylcreem has undoubtedly leached out of it by this time. He grasps Napoleon's hair at the back of his head, pulls it back so that Napoleon's throat is bared to him. "I thought you were master criminal," he sneers, "international playboy. And now look at you." He drops Napoleon's head. "You are nothing but an American whore." 

"Whore?" Napoleon blinks at him. 

"We say that capitalists are whores," Illya explains, "because they sell themselves for money." 

"And in the Soviet Union, there are no whores?" 

There are, of course, but Illya certainly won't admit that to Napoleon. "Sex workers of the state," he says. The half-joke appeals to him. "It is saying in Russia, from each according to his abilities, and to each according to his needs. You have great need, but perhaps you have great ability--you could be state whore instead of capitalist whore. Is fulfilling need at the same time is using ability, a Communist miracle." 

Napoleon is starting to smirk, the joke a distraction from his lust. This will never do, Illya decides. "Men would line up for hours to fuck your mouth," he says, and he starts to unbutton Napoleon's shirt. "One thick cock in your mouth, one after the other. All day, for ten hours. No break for meals--you only eat their come." 

He unbuttons his own pants. The fantasy is getting to him, and he might as well give Napoleon a taste of it. Napoleon is panting, mouth hanging open again, licking his lips as though imagining the taste of thick, sweaty cocks of rugged Communist workers in his mouth. "Do you like that? American pig whore, on your hands and knees to serve the workers. We will show you what parasites like you are good for." 

Napoleon's head drops, and he clutches the fabric of Illya's trousers. "I can't believe you're making me get off on some kind of perverted Communist propaganda fantasy." 

"Pure idealism is for the intellectual class--true Communism comes from the concrete, from the production of the workers." He sees Napoleon's head quirk to the side. "I am only one worker, but you're still going to have my cock in your mouth."

Illya shoves his trousers down. His cock is straining through his white cotton underwear. "American slut. You want this so bad, you can think of nothing else." There's already a wet spot on the fabric of his underwear, and Illya's breath freezes in his lungs as Napoleon darts the tip of his tongue out to lick it. "Slut," he says again, enjoying the sibilance of the word in his mouth, the flourish of the popping T sound at the end. "Isn't that what you call women when they spread their legs for you? Are you going to spread your legs for me, even after I come in your mouth?" 

Before Napoleon can answer, Illya yanks his underwear down. His cock is pale, thick, and heavy, a dusting of dark golden hair at the base. It stands up proudly, thick and muscular, a drop of pre-come seeping from its tip. "Taste it," he hisses, and he yanks Napoleon's hair back again. He brushes the tip of his cock against Napoleon's wet, red lips, smearing the drop of fluid across Napoleon's mouth. 

Napoleon opens his lips and envelopes the tip of Illya's cock with his mouth, lips forming an obscene rosebud as they press against Illya's smooth skin. It's too little, too slow--too in control. He drags Napoleon's head forward, and Napoleon flicks his wide eyes upwards before opening his mouth wider. His mouth is a surprised, womanish O as Illya's cock slides in and out of his mouth, deeper with every thrust. 

Solo's mouth is warm and wet, and Illya can feel the muscles of his throat working to contain his hard length. His tongue dances along the underside of Illya's shaft, tracing the throbbing vein there, and Illya snaps his hips forwards as pleasure radiates down his spine. 

"You are good with your tongue," Illya snarls, "but that is also your trouble. I have wanted to shut you up for so long." He reaches out and strokes Napoleon's throat, feeling the raspy tremble of the agent's breathing. And then he squeezes. 

Napoleon's eyes go wide as Illya shoves his dick as far down Napoleon's throat as he can possibly go. Napoleon chokes, throat muscles fluttering against Illya's cock in a parody of the way his tongue felt earlier. 

"American whore, this is what you get." Illya squeezes just a little harder, and then loosens up. He's been taught exactly how hard to do this to make a man choke to death and how hard to do this to make a man only think he is choking to death, and Napoleon is certainly getting the softer end of the spectrum. But he doesn't need to know that. "Look at us now--you are miles from the trash that brings you pleasure, and I am in control. I can make you choke to death on my cock, if I do not like your performance." 

Napoleon whimpers and shoves his hips forward. He swallows hard around Illya's cock, fingers fisting in the fabric of Illya's trousers in a silent plea. 

Illya jerks his hips forward over and over, pumping hard into Napoleon's throat. His balls tighten and heat begins to crackle like a lightning bolt in his belly. He imagines Napoleon gulping down his come--but no. He yanks Napoleon's head back hard, watching as tears gather in the corners of Napoleon's eyes, start to mingle with the sweat running down his face, and he grabs his cock and pumps it once, twice three times-- 

He snaps his hips forward and he's coming hard, so hard, ropes of sticky come landing all over Napoleon's face. There's a splotch of white across his cheek, droplets on his nose and fat white globules on his lips. Napoleon closes his eyes in ecstasy and opens his mouth, tongue darting forward to let the wet spurts of Illya's come collect on his tongue. 

Illya can barely catch his breath. Napoleon is wanton and pretty like this, submissive and on his knees, sweat and tears mixing with the come streaked across his face. 

"You stupid slut," Illya murmurs, "getting all that dirty come all over your face." He reaches out and wipes the pad of his thumb across Napoleon's cheek, smearing the come all over his skin. "Go clean yourself up, whore." 

Napoleon rises from his heels and turns, heading towards the bathroom. He's silent for once. Illya tucks himself into his trousers, rests his hands on his knees, and draws in a very shaky breath.


	2. Chapter 2

Illya had hoped to buy himself a few hours of peace, but when Napoleon comes out of the bathroom, it is obvious that there will be no peace for him. 

Napoleon's shirt is open, revealing a sprinkling of dark curls over his chest. The water from the cloth he is mopping his face with is running down his square jaw, over his throat, and down his collarbone. It's trickling down his chest, wetting down that black hair until it glistens. Illya's eyes follow the gleaming trail of water down Napoleon's stomach, over well-defined abdominal muscles that still look temptingly soft, and down to his underwear. 

The water from the washcloth may be what's making Napoleon's white cotton briefs translucent, revealing the hard lump of his cock, but the splotch of wetness at the tip of his erection is certainly not water. 

"I cleaned myself up." Napoleon holds up the washcloth. 

"Okay. Good." Illya studies Napoleon's face. Solo's expression is carefully measured--not blank, but restrained. "Do you feel better now?" 

As if in answer, Napoleon squeezes the washcloth hard. Water drips out between his fingers and splashes onto the floor. "Not...really." He's gritting his teeth, as though holding back in some superhuman show of restraint, and it doesn't seem to be working very well. 

"Choking on my cock wasn't enough for you?" Illya moves towards Napoleon. "My come all over your face, that wasn't enough for you? You want more?" 

"You certainly took care of yourself," Napoleon says, "and you left me hanging." 

"I thought it wasn't about coming, just having someone pay attention to you. Flatter your ego." 

"Calling me a capitalist whore isn't exactly flattering to the ego." 

"So sorry," Illya sneers. "I am not a woman who will fawn all over your and suck your cock." He stops in front of Napoleon and slips one finger into the waistband of his briefs, pulling them away from the member in question. "If you want this from me, we will do it my way, or you will moan in agony alone." 

"So..." Napoleon blinks up at Illya. "You're not going to, ah. Reciprocate." 

Illya flicks the elastic back into place. "You remember, Cowboy, that this is favor to you. I do not put dirty things in my mouth." 

Napoleon shudders a little, even as his face drops. "Handjobs aren't my favorite--" 

"One: I do not care." Illya puts up one finger. "Two: I am not touching your cock." Even though, he thinks, it's thick and looks smooth and would fit so well in his hand--jerking Napoleon off would be a sort of capitulation, and he's enjoying the power he has over the other agent far too much to give it up just yet. "Three: This is how many fingers will be going in you." He holds up his hand, thick, muscular fingers pressed together, pinkie and thumb curled up in an O. 

This garners an almost inaudible moan from Napoleon. The washcloth drops to the floor. "There's some mineral oil in the first aid kit," he says. "I don't care what you think, but you're not--" His breath hitches. "You're not just shoving those into me dry." 

"Then get it," Illya snaps. He watches as Napoleon turns, the thin white fabric of his briefs pulled tight against his ass. It's a perfectly shaped ass, as round as an apple, tight and muscular. 

Illya has never really noticed anyone's ass before. It's a strange feeling, to look at Napoleon and have his eyes fixed to that one particular body part. To wonder how it would feel to slide his fingers between those cheeks, to have Napoleon's body vulnerable under him. He'll get to find out soon enough, he supposes. Unless Napoleon calls his bluff. 

Napoleon tosses him the bottle of mineral oil. He's regained that cocky look on his face, but Illya can see that his legs are trembling, just a little. He stares at the label on the bottle of mineral oil, trying to buy time, to plan out what he's going to do. 

"Well, Peril? Where are we going to do this?" Napoleon jerks his head towards the couch. 

Illya waves the bottle. "Oh, no. Not yet. You must earn this." Napoleon rolls his eyes. "What, you think you are in position to be picky?" 

"I don't know why you think you're in a position to be sadistic." 

"'Oh, big Russian bear, why don't you smack me around a little'. Does that sound familiar?" Illya mocks. "'It turns me on when you talk dirty to me about being Communist whore.' I tell you that I will choke you with my cock, and you get even harder." 

Napoleon's expression doesn't change, but his cheeks flame red. "You could be a little nicer, is all." 

"You want to wait until we are back in fancy hotel? You want me to take you slowly on silk sheets and whisper 'Ya tebya lyublyu' into your ear like girl? Fine. Then wait." Illya drops the bottle of mineral oil onto the couch. It bounces. 

He was expecting more of a fight, he admits to himself. He wasn't expecting Napoleon to drop to his knees in front of Illya and say, "Then I'll earn it." He wasn't expecting Napoleon to grab Illya's hand and guide the middle three fingers of his right hand into Napoleon's red mouth. 

Napoleon looks up at him with dark, wide eyes as he presses his tongue against the sensitive underside of Illya's fingers. He bobs his head up and down, taking Illya's fingers deeper into his mouth. 

When Illya withdraws his fingers from Napoleon's mouth, they are dripping. "See," Napoleon says, "I got you all ready to put them in me." He swallows, hard. "Did I earn it?" 

His voice sounds rough, a little whispery, after that much deep-throating--first Illya's cock stretching out his throat but then the friction of his dry fingers. It sounds husky, eager. 

"If you think that's enough to fuck you with," Illya says, "that's what I'm going to use." 

Napoleon moans and splays his legs, still on his knees. He's showing off his erection, showing Illya how hard it makes him to think about being fingered rough and hard with only his spit for lubricant. 

Illya's breath catches in his throat. He threads his fingers through Napoleon's hair, then pushes Napoleon's head down. The dark-haired man lands on his hands, falling into a kneeling position easily. 

"Good, good." Illya attempts to calm his own shaking breathing. "No bed. No soft couch. You stay on your hands and knees for me." He yanks down Napoleon's underwear with one hand, letting Napoleon kick it across the cabin. 

Illya grabs the bottle of mineral oil off the couch and drizzles some on his fingers, coating them liberally. "I hope you spat on my fingers enough. You're not getting anything else to ease the way," he lies. "If you want this to hurt, it will hurt." 

"I don't care if it hurts." Napoleon's breathing is already rough, his knees splayed out on the unfinished wood of the cabin floor. "I bet you'd like that, huh? Fucking me raw, making the big bad Cowboy scream?" 

That's when Illya shoves in one finger. There's no teasing, no gentle opening of Napoleon's hole--just Illya's fingers splayed out against his cheeks. Napoleon stiffens up immediately, back arching up, and Illya places a firm hand on the small of his back. "Just relax and take it. This is what you wanted, isn't it?" 

Napoleon's legs are already trembling. He presses his cheek to the rough surface of the floor, head bowed in submission. Illya doesn't like it--it's too easy. He slides in another finger, astonished at how easily Napoleon's passage opens for him. "You're loose already, Cowboy. How many people have you been allowing to ride you?" 

"How many do you think?" Napoleon mumbles. In response, Illya withdraws his fingers and spits theatrically on his hand to cover up the sound of him opening the mineral oil bottle. 

When Illya presses a third finger in, Napoleon's ass is finally gratifyingly tight around him. He's rewarded with a low moan from Napoleon and the sight of Napoleon's hands curling into fists, clawing slowly at the wooden floor. 

"Look at you. You're begging for it." Illya moves his fingers in and out slowly, stretching out that tight ring. "This is major liability, Cowboy. What if you were captured in THRUSH cell?" 

"What if--what if, indeed?" Napoleon's voice is halting, slow. 

"Would you be begging your captors for a fuck?" Illya shoves his fingers in a little more viciously, feeling Napoleon's muscles constrict around him. "They would indulge you, of course. They would line up their guards to use you." He twists his fingers, feeling Napoleon loosen up. "One after the other, your ass shoved up against iron bars, using your hole. They wouldn't be as kind as me--the only thing you'd get to ease the way would be the last man's come." 

It's not hard to imagine Napoleon disheveled, tied up, with his pants around his ankles, come dripping out of his wide, used hole. "You'd be so fucked out they couldn't interrogate you," Illya says. "They will keep you and use you as fucktoy. Is that what you want, Napoleon?" He slaps Napoleon's ass, and Napoleon's quivering body jerks in surprise. A soft whimper reaches Illya's ears. "Is this how you want your career to end? You will be piece of meat good for nothing but taking cock." 

Napoleon bangs his forehead on the floor, whimpers turning high-pitched and keening. "I'm good for nothing but taking cock," he echoes, and the broken admission in his voice makes arousal shoot through Illya like a lightning bolt. "So put me to use, please, God, please." 

Illya withdraws his fingers slowly, arm shaking with arousal. He can't believe how much Napoleon's begging is disarming him so quickly-how much he wants to give the Cowboy what he so badly needs, how far he wants to see Napoleon go. "What will you do for me if I fuck you?" 

"Make you come." Napoleon grinds his ass against Illya's leg. Shameless, Illya thinks, like a dog in heat. "Is that enough," Napoleon continues, "or do I have to--do more?" He looks back at Illya, his face red and his pupils dilated, and grins. "Do your paperwork? Get you coffee? Shine your shoes?" 

Illya thinks, very hard, about Napoleon cleaning off Illya's shoes with his tongue. Another time, when Illya's shoes are not soaked in snow and mud, perhaps. The next time they have to do some wretched bit of business in tuxedos, he will make Napoleon get on his knees and lave his tongue along those toe-pinching patent leather shoes he is forced to wear. It will be very satisfying to watch Napoleon, done up perfectly in a crisp tuxedo and looking thoroughly in his element, kneel down and kiss Illya's foot like a humbled man. 

For now, another task must be performed. Illya thinks about it so hard that he blushes, then steps around to Napoleon's face. "Look," he says. "Look at me." 

Napoleon looks up, hands splayed on the floor. His eyes are wide and dark, his lips red and full. It's incredible. "All right, Peril, I see you." 

Illya unbuttons his fly, slowly, deliberately. He eases his hard cock out of his trousers. "Kiss it." 

"I've already sucked your cock, I don't see--" Napoleon says, but Illya covers his mouth with his hands. He can feel Napoleon's tongue squirming against his palm, pressing spit against his hand. He's not sure if Napoleon is trying to get his hand wet in preparation for something even more intense, or simply trying to get him to pull his hand away. 

"Just kiss it. And then--" Illya glares at Napoleon, trying to keep a straight face. "You thank my cock for the pleasure it will be giving you." 

He pulls his hand away. Napoleon's eyebrows are raised, like he can't quite tell whether Illya is kidding or not. "Very well," he says, "and what shall I call your, ah, mighty organ?" 

"Ilyich," Illya says. Not a very imaginative name, but he somehow can't quite come to terms with calling his penis the first term which had leapt into his mind, which was "Mighty Hammer of the Communist Party." 

"Thank you--" Napoleon stops and blinks at Illya, breaking the spell just a little more than it already has been. "I can't believe what I have to do to get you to put your dick in me," he says. 

"If you don't want it, go outside and fuck yourself on a tree branch," Illya says. "Or let a polar bear hump you to death. I don't care." 

"...are there polar bears around here?" 

"Yes, and I'm it." Illya rolls his eyes. "If you keep distracting me, you get nothing." 

That gets Napoleon's attention back to the situation at hand in a hurry. He presses a delicate, formal kiss to the head of Illya's cock, a bead of pre-cum smearing across his bottom lip. "Ilyich," he says to Illya's hard cock, "thank you for the pleasure you will be giving me." 

Illya gives Napoleon's head a quick pat, as condescending as he can make such a simple gesture. "Good boy," he says simply, and returns to Napoleon's ass. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Napoleon's head rise a little bit, as though straightening his shoulders with pride. 

More mineral oil, dipping his fingers into Napoleon's ass. He stretches Napoleon wide open, scissoring with his fingers just a little, just enough to see if Napoleon can take it. But Napoleon opens up wide at the touch, spreading his legs apart just a little bit farther, making a noise low in his throat that sounds like a cough or a choke or a sob. "Give it to me, Peril. Just give it to me hard--" 

Illya is done for. He grips Napoleon's hips with both of his strong hands and shoves hard, pushing his aching cock into Napoleon as fast and as hard as he is able. He's so focused on Napoleon, focused on how it must feel to be split apart by his cock, and the pleasure pulsing through him is light and barely separable from his rage. But it's good to give in to this rage, to feel the power coursing through him hot and free. He slams into Napoleon hard, rough, his thrusts erratic and ragged. 

Napoleon is pushing his ass back into Illya, offering it up to him like a cat being scratched. His hands are curling and uncurling on the wooden floor, fingernails scratching the tile, and his chest is pressed to the floor like he's holding on for dear life. He's in the most obscene pose Illya has ever seen. Illya looks down the slope of his back to his hair, wet and shining, straggling curls drowning in the sweat beading on his neck. 

"Do you like that?" he hisses, punctuating the question with a particularly hard thrust of his hips. Napoleon doesn't respond. He does it again, twice, in quick succession. "Is this what you wanted, me fucking you like this?" 

"Yes," Napoleon gasps, clawing at the wooden floor. "Yes, God, yes." 

Illya leans over Napoleon's back, as close as he can come without making them both topple over. He pitches his voice low, and it comes out as a growl. "You can't even control yourself for a week, you slut. Begging me for my cock like this. You wouldn't care how hard I used you as long as you got fucked." 

"Use me." Napoleon is half-whispering, half-shouting. "Yeah, come on. Tear me up, do it, just--" And then he shudders, a whole-body shudder that makes him contract around Illya, sucking the orgasm out of Illya's cock. He whines a low, gasping sound that turns into something that stops just short of a roar, and then sags like a doll in Illya's arms. 

Illya can barely feel his own orgasm, just a series of short shocks up his spine that jolt his body forward. It's as though he's being dragged along, the pleasure center in his brain overloading until it burns out entirely, taking control of his nervous system before wrenching every iota of energy out of him. 

He slides out of Napoleon and goes down on his knees on the floor. Napoleon is holding himself up on his elbows, shaking, eyes half-closed like a cat. There's sweat all over his body, beaded and pooling in the small of his back, mixing with the come that's dripping out of his hole and down his thigh. There's a bead of sweat on his brow, and Illya licks it off. 

It makes Napoleon shudder, but he does not turn away. Illya slides his fingers into Napoleon's hair, runs his tongue over Napoleon's face, down from his brow to his jawline. His sweat is salty, warm, strangely intoxicating now that he's had his fingers inside of the man's body. 

Then he pulls Napoleon's hair tight through his fingers, bringing his head up, baring his throat. Napoleon doesn't resist, wincing a little at the pain but not trying to duck or pull his head away. 

Illya kisses him hard, forcing Napoleon's jaw open with his tongue. Shoving his tongue inside of Napoleon's mouth is like shoving his cock in it. He feels the warm, wet suction of Napoleon sucking on his tongue, and Napoleon is taking his tongue like it's a cock, using his teeth and sucking like he's desperate, needy. Illya finally breaks the kiss. 

"Good," he says, and lets Napoleon's hair go. There's a quaver in his voice, and he takes deep breaths before speaking again. "You will be fine now, _da_?" 

Napoleon groans and collapses onto the floor, face resting on his folded arms. "I don't know," he says. "Let's see how I feel tomorrow."


End file.
